


Things Forgotten

by Virtual_Reality



Series: Steve and Bucky through the years [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kissing, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Relapse, Steve Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virtual_Reality/pseuds/Virtual_Reality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Note to self: Just because you don't have much free time doesn't mean you should watch movies whilst writing. Even worse - it was a psychological thriller... So if things get a little bit weird.... Yeah. Sorry. Won't do that again.</p><p>Don't know if any of you have looked at the link I posted in the first part, but, as is probably obvious to you at this point. I take inspiration from it rather than rule. I'm not writing things I am uncomfortable with. I'm sorry.</p><p>My last read through was so clinical, the chapter seemed a bit choppy, and... Lacking. I hope it isn't like that for you, but I've had quite enough of this chapter, so I'm posting it now. Tomorrow should be better. I've finally got some new ideas/inspiration.</p><p>Finally, I'm going to do a trigger warning. Better safe than sorry. Anxiety, panic attacks, and vague mentions of past trauma might upset some people. It's very foggy, but still.</p><p>If there happen to be any authors out there reading this. Please. Always put a trigger warning. These may be pretend stories, but there are real people suffering from real problems, and as a sensitive reader/writer/person myself, being triggered by a story is not fun. I'm very sorry if any of my previous works have upset anyone. I'll try to be more aware from this point forward.</p><p>I'll be quiet now. Sorry for the long note.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Things Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: Just because you don't have much free time doesn't mean you should watch movies whilst writing. Even worse - it was a psychological thriller... So if things get a little bit weird.... Yeah. Sorry. Won't do that again.
> 
> Don't know if any of you have looked at the link I posted in the first part, but, as is probably obvious to you at this point. I take inspiration from it rather than rule. I'm not writing things I am uncomfortable with. I'm sorry.
> 
> My last read through was so clinical, the chapter seemed a bit choppy, and... Lacking. I hope it isn't like that for you, but I've had quite enough of this chapter, so I'm posting it now. Tomorrow should be better. I've finally got some new ideas/inspiration.
> 
> Finally, I'm going to do a trigger warning. Better safe than sorry. Anxiety, panic attacks, and vague mentions of past trauma might upset some people. It's very foggy, but still.
> 
> If there happen to be any authors out there reading this. Please. Always put a trigger warning. These may be pretend stories, but there are real people suffering from real problems, and as a sensitive reader/writer/person myself, being triggered by a story is not fun. I'm very sorry if any of my previous works have upset anyone. I'll try to be more aware from this point forward.
> 
> I'll be quiet now. Sorry for the long note.

James is tucked into Steve's chest, trying to relax. Every voice in his head told him not to. The Asset keeping him tense, ready for attack.

He trusted Steve now, after living with him for so long - months, now, practically becoming his fuck-buddy, against Steve's better judgement, and regularly attending Sam's counseling sessions at his side - hand in hand, more often than not - he has Steve's constant presence at his side. After all the rehabilitation he's been through the past couple months, James has gradually started to trust again... And after almost eight months off Hydra's drugs, his memories slowly started seeping in.

He's been with Steve the whole time, under his and occasionally, Sam, Clint, or Natalia's surveillance especially after his first relapse, and occasionally he'd wake up, and there'd be three people in their bed, and sometimes Steve would get carried away, and have a handful of Bucky's ass before he remembered they weren't alone, but it was nice, and most days, he can pretend he's normal.

But he still remembers very little.

Steve was looking through a dusty sketchpad, a dozen faded photographs tucked between the yellowed pages. James was peeking over his shoulder, casually, his hair had been tied back by Natasha, who was currently sitting in the corner flipping through a magazine, so, as he leaned against the back of Steve's chair, it was kept out of his face, "These are really good." He noted, and Steve had smiled. The pages were weathered and worn, and the pencil was a little smudged, and faded, but the sketches were beautiful. He pointed to one, of a man, laughing, all dimples and charm, shaded in grey, "Is this me?"

"Yeah," Steve sighs wistfully, "Way back in thirty-eight." He ignores the way his heart clenches at the memory.

"Here in Brooklyn, right?" James let his fingers trace the lines of the building behind him, "I recognize the diner, there... You were just a skinny fella then, weren't you?"

Steve stood, abruptly, and turned to Bucky, who straightened, bracing himself on instinct. Steve only pulled him close, and to James' utter confusion, pressed his soft, warm mouth against his. Chaste, very gentle, and so familiar, and he panicked.

It was all quite fuzzy, but then again, he's not sure of anything anymore. His past is still a blur. A blur of memories forced into his mind, and even then, he couldn't decide if they were real, or remember any emotional connection to them. It was hell. Separating truth from lies. Hallucinations from reality. It made James' head ache with the strain. The voices. The impulses. The triggers, and his hands would shake, and The Asset would try to force it all out, but he has to hold on. He hardly trusted himself anymore. Didn't know who he really was. Didn't know who he would be when he woke up the next morning, or when all the memories would be taken from him again. Burned out of his mind.

On the days Steve has to run errands, he's assigned a babysitter, but James doesn't mind, he feels safer with company. He imagines, in his past life, he must've loved people, but he can't be sure, because compared to his old masters, everyone was so nice to him here.

Each sitter had their perks, but Clint, he decides, is his favorite. He was always the one that stood out to James, though he did take a little getting used to, and Steve did seem slightly hesitant to leave them alone together. James was worried for a total of six minutes, and then he was fine.

Four hours later, Steve found them lying together in his bed, Bucky flat on his back, fingers interlocked across his ribs, staring intently at the ceiling. Clint, his head resting casually on Bucky's stomach, reading about a Mirror of Erised from a hardback copy of an actual book, and Steve is so proud of Clint, that James doesn't even have to do much convincing to get Steve to agree to letting him stay more often.

James shared a bed with Steve pretty regularly, as the spare bedroom was often occupied. He didn't mind, really. It wasn't like Steve forced himself on him - unlike some of his handlers. He gave him his space, and a decent amount of privacy, and occasionally there were benefits, so it was fine. Bucky still wanders the house on occasion, and was often plagued with nightmares; his mind slipping back to the dark place, and he was the nameless, emotionless assassin again. The winter soldier. Only a weapon to be ordered, and tortured by his masters; kept silent by the chemicals in his body, and the fire in his brain. Muzzled with fear, and hardened with pain.

Steve seemed to trust him, though. So if things went south, that gave him an advantage.

No.

Don't think like that, James. No.

Not the advantage. Trust was a sign of love. Of devotion. James wouldn't hurt him. Steve wasn't his target anymore... And Bucky wasn't a gun anymore. He had a choice. He wasn't this Bucky that Steve thought he was, either. Not anymore. But for Steve. Who had rescued him... Kept him protected, and accepted him back so willingly. Blindly. Stupidly. He would sure as hell pretend to be this Bucky.

Relapse happened often nowadays, waking up in the middle of the night. Not knowing where he was, or who he was: the bed too soft and the room, too warm, and he just knew he didn't belong here. Next thing he knew, Steve was panting, rubbing his throat, Sam was on the ground across the room, and James was only just waking up, blocking The Asset from his thoughts.

"Fuck." James whispers, and part of the fear clutching at his heart was of himself. "I'm so sorry-"

"It's okay," Steve says, but he's hoarse, and he knows Steve will say anything to keep him calm after an episode.

"Shit. Did I hurt you? Of course I did. Fuck, Steve..."

"Bucky..."

"How badly did I hurt you?" He demanded, "Sam? Are you... Okay?"

"No, no, I'm fine, Buck." Steve insists.

He doesn't hear Sam's response - he's left the room.

"I'm sorry." James whispers, the fear closing in again, "I wasn't. I can't, I just."

"No, it's okay. It's not your fault." James stays silent, eyes focused on the wall across the room. He nods, hoping Steve will see. Lips touched his shoulder, where skin met metal, and Bucky tried not to cringe, "Calm down." His hand slid down the length of Bucky's arm, resting over his hand, holding it down, "You're having a panic attack, and you need to breathe."

But he was breathing. Too fast. He could feel the heat of Steve along his back, and tried to calm down.

"I'm not them. You need to know that. You're not their toy anymore. You're my friend. Your name is James. Remember."

James nodded, and let the weight of Steve push him into the bed, just in case, "I remember."

"Good," Steve kissed his cheek, "I'm not gonna hurt you. Just breathe."

James forced his breathing to slow, let the tension leave his shoulders.

"Yes, that's good. You're doing so good for me." Steve whispered, "Relax."

The more James relaxes, the more he realizes he's shaking. He turns onto his stomach, hiding his face in his arm.

Steve let a hand rub soothing circles into Bucky's back, feeling weak, and helpless to protect his friend from himself. "I love you." Steve whispered, and moved back to his side to give Bucky his space, "Try to get some sleep. I'm going to check on Sam." He says it softly, 

Since then, things have gotten better. They have their moments of pain, moments of laughter, moments when they just sit together in silence, thinking through all that had happened. James took it much harder than Steve, understandably, and sometimes he still feels he is beyond saving. Especially in these mental relapses.

But he's still trying.

He reads the Internet a lot, and talks to Steve about who he used to be, and James thinks if he pretends, it'll be close to remembering. That if he can master being James the way he'd learned so many other personalities, and false identities, he can be Bucky for Steve, and it'll be enough.

It's a cold November night when James has his next memory seep back in and Steve is reading, lying on his back when it happened. Slowly, hesitantly, James had moved closer to him, his hand finding Steve's lower ribs, a warning as he felt the panic approach and Steve's gaze shifted to him.

Steve smiled warmly, and Bucky let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Steve moved his arm to let Bucky slide in beside him, and he hesitantly let his head rest on Steve's chest, his real arm draped around his waist, and when Steve returned the gesture with an arm around Bucky, he relaxed.

It was the closest thing to progress they've made so far.

They try to get their physical needs out of the way between visitors, and James spends quite a lot of time pressed up against a wall, amazed by the magnitude of Steve's passion, or on the couch in a tangle of limbs, sharing slow, deep, sensual kisses. Kisses that meant more to Steve than to James, but nobody needed to know that...

Steve didn't need to know that.

Steve is happy, and James... Well, It's a hard transition, but each time gets easier.

They've each done their fair share of groping, though the regular episodes have dampened their sex life quite a bit. James was comfortable with that, trusting himself to remain level headed through it. Kissing, touching, hands delving past clothing to once familiar territory. Steve learning the curves and dips he once knew so well, James enjoying the hard muscle, and lean curves of Steve's body.

One night, they'd even gone as far as to curl up together, and jerk each other off while they kissed. It had gotten easier to relax, and James started wanting to be near Steve more often. To close that distance on the bed, slot their limbs together when they slept. Steve made him feel safe. But the first time Steve flinched when the coldness of James' metal arm found his waist, he withdrew himself again.

Steve missed it horribly, Bucky's cuddle phase, more than he'd admit, and it was his fault. He couldn't help it, the prosthetic was cold, and Steve was very warm, but the small slip changed Bucky's attitude all the same. Still, though things are complicated. They strive to never push one another away. Steve has so much lost time to make up for, and he's been so helpful. So kind and generous, James could hardly bear to deny him the things he wanted.

And James... Bucky had been neglected choice, denied free will. He'd been touched, and ordered, and used, and abused as his masters saw fit, and Steve wouldn't deny him the freedom of making his choices now. Whatever those choices were.

If Steve decided to yank off Bucky's shirt one night, James let him. If James was feeling particularly bad, which, sadly, happened often, and wanted Steve to hold him, and kiss his hair, or hold his hand across the bed, or let him keep his distance altogether, Steve did. No questions asked.

So, one night, when Steve's hand is shoved down Bucky's pants in the middle of a particularly heated make out session, after getting over the initial shock of it all, he took it in stride, deepening their kiss, quick to return the touch.

Steve felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, and arousal when Bucky's metal hand slid over the curve of his ass in response to him, tugging his boxers down, his other not ceasing it's pace on his dick, coaxing quiet little moans from his lips.

Steve glances up from between their bodies, watching Bucky's face from beneath his thick lashes. James seems to be processing something, but when he notices Steve's gaze, the expression dissolves. Then, Bucky flings a leg over Steve's hip, and uses that leverage to haul himself over Steve's body. He straddles his hips, only for a second, and he's moving down his body, pressing kisses to his skin as he went.

Steve sighs, and smiles, head dropping back onto the mattress when Bucky leans in, and he feels the touch of his too pink lips right where he wants them, and that's his last coherent thought. His face heats, though most of his blood rushes south, boiling, chasing the touch of his lips, and leaving him lightheaded.

"Bucky-" Steve huffs, and his hands grips his messy hair. James pulls back, and Steve looks at him. He just stares at him: not moving, not saying anything, trying to remember what he'd done that made him stop, but lacking enough oxygen in his brain for that. Hesitantly, James starts stroking him again, slower, leisure, and Steve lays back, his eyes slip shut, and he groans softly.

"Such a drama queen," Bucky tries a smile, "You act like I ain't touched you in weeks." He cocks his head to the side, "How did you ever manage without me?"

Steve's lips part, and he takes a slow shaky breath. "It's more of a burden than you think, I can assure you."

They lock eyes for what seemed like an eternity, then, James shrugs, leans in, and teases the tip with his lips.

He watches James' face, but his eyes are focused elsewhere now, and Steve tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry. Words fail him, and he settles on silence. The strokes are slow, and when he swipes his tongue over the very tip, Steve chokes on his breath, grabbing a handful of that dark, messy hair. He's not going to come so fast, absolutely not.

Bucky nestles his face into Steve's hip, pressing two kisses there, "You're so sensitive." His smirk was apparent in his tone, "I'm just getting started."

It takes him a moment to understand that, and he wants to laugh, "I've always been sensitive, Buck. You'd know that if you remembered me."

Bucky continues without comment.

His mouth is hot, and wet, and his lips are tight, and his hands, tighter. He barely took more than the tip, and Steve is overwhelmed, trying to keep his stuttering hips still.

He gasps softly, and whimpers when Bucky hums around him. Icy blue eyes lock on his, only for a moment, and Steve feels a flood of heat pooling in his stomach, and he falls against the mattress, pressing back against it.

Steve chokes on a gasp, and Bucky pulls back when the hands in his hair try to press him away, but his hand never ceases pace. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, and Steve wants to taste them, bite them... Bucky pauses, his fingers spreading the pearly drops of precome over the tip before his tongue slips out to taste him.

"Close already?" Bucky's eyes meet his again, and it took him a moment to comprehend what he'd asked, lost in the curve of his lips.

Steve nods, lips trying to form words, but as Bucky leans back in, he lets them dissolve. It felt so, so good, lips, and tongue, and he never let up: the friction, the heat, a little moan, a soft hum, a tentative suck, it's all too much.

Too soon, he's gasping for air, his hands gripping Bucky's shoulders trying to hold on as Bucky completely ignores his gasped words of warning, pushing him through his finish, not stopping for anything.

Suddenly, his mind is blank.

He's aware of pleasure, of heat, of a familiar burning tingle, starting at the base of his spine, and consuming him. It happens both gradually, and all at once, in pulses, and it keeps going. Bucky keeps going. He's still, l moving, and Steve is oversensitive, and feels paralyzed, but it's good. Fuck. It's really good, but his hands push Bucky back again, unable to take any more.

Gradually, as the pleasure begins to fade, he starts regaining his senses, and his body is heavy, and weak, and hot.

Bucky lays at his side, watching quietly as Steve comes down. Breathy moans spill from his lips as Steve catches his breath, and he's still trying to settle as Bucky wiped his brow. "It's a fucking pity I never got to interrogate you, Rogers. You would've sold me the secrets to your soul."

His skin tingles, and he smiles, turning toward Bucky, letting his hand creep down Bucky's body to return the favor. "Shut up."

"Don't." Bucky says, taking his arm by the wrist, and dragging his hand away. "Don't." He repeats.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Bucky whispers, and looks up at him briefly, "Nothing." He sits up.

"You can tell me." Steve reminds him, "I won't be mad," He moves closer.

"It's nothing." Bucky says, then stood, mumbling something about a shower, and with a hand to his chest, he tells Steve not to follow him.


End file.
